


Comforting Chains and Love Me Knots

by ConsultingWriter



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bumblebee Socks, Fluff, He Started Because of His Therapist, John Has a Few Reichenbach Feels, John Wears a Bumblebee Sweater, John is Addicted to Knitting, Knitting, M/M, Non-kinky kink!meme fill, Post-Reichenbach, Sarah and John Have Girl Time, Sherlock has feelings, Sherlock in Knitted Clothing, Sherlock is in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death John's therapist suggests he get a hobby. He chooses knitting.</p><p>  <i> "The first aisle he came upon read “Pottery” in bulky letters and he stared at it in consideration. Something that involved using his hands, he could work with that; but were would he put all the things? He didn’t think there was enough room in the flat for the pottery making tools and a bunch of vases. </i><br/><i>Besides, Sherlock would knock them all down out of bored—John flinched at the thought and moved on. Right, no pottery. It wouldn’t be fun to have something like that in the flat without having Sherlock around to smash it anyway." <i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first 2 Chapters are gonna be short because of the fact that I was originally trying to break it up for the kink!meme, the third (which should be the last) will be longer.

John stared at Ella blankly, no longer listening to what the woman was saying. A hobby. His best friend was dead—had jumped off the roof of a building right before his eyes—and she wanted him to get a hobby? What would he even do? Donavan had once suggesting fishing, but John honestly couldn’t think of anything outside of shooting himself in the foot that he’d rather do less; after spending so much time in the constant chaos of activity that was—that had been—Sherlock Holmes, John didn’t think he could go back to sitting silently on a bank with a fishing rod in hand. Nor would model trains do; he’d always loved trains, especially old steam engines, but so had Sherlock and John honestly didn’t think he’d be able to look at a train—real or fake—without remembering Sherlock’s face the first time they’d been on a refurbished steam engine train (one of the few things they’d done out of London that wasn’t for a case).  
  
“John!”  
  
The shout startled him into flinching out of his comfortable position and caused him to blink at his therapist, confused as to why she was shouting.  
  
Ella sighed and shook her head “Your session today is over, before our next meeting, I’d like you start trying to find a hobby that will fit you,” she gave him a pointed look “Something calming, John, not something like extreme bungee jumping .”  
  
‘Well damn,’ John thought to himself with an eyeroll ‘there goes my first choice.’  
  
“Okay,” he said instead. With a short handshake he was on his way, limping slightly, back to 221B; he paused halfway down the route, however and sighed—he didn’t want to go back to the empty flat yet. With that in mind, he turned to the left, venturing down the next street.  
  
Half an hour later he stopped and looked at the glass windows of the storefront that he’d paused at and pursed his lip slightly “Crafts and Hobby supplies!” was sprawled across the window in bright glass paint. Thinking it over for a moment, the ex-soldier heaved a sigh and pushed the door open, listening to the faint jingling of the bell tied to the top of the door.  
  
Right, he nodded to himself, find a hobby, how hard could that be?  
  
The first isle he came upon read “Pottery” in bulky letters and he stared at it in consideration. Something that involved using his hands, he could work with that; but were would he put all the things? He didn’t think there was enough room in the flat for the pottery making tools and a bunch of vases.  
  
Besides, Sherlock would knock them all down out of bored—John flinched at the thought and moved on. Right, no pottery. It wouldn’t be fun to have something like that in the flat without having Sherlock around to smash it anyway.  
  
“Models” is what the next sign said, and he skipped that without any consideration same with the “Jewelry” (he already got enough ‘gay’ comments from living with Sherlock), “Woodworking”, and “Painting”(he’d had to take a class in Uni and everything he’d created looked like the work of a six year old) aisles.

The last sign on the row of aisles said “Sew/Quilting/Knitting” and John paused and tugged on his jumper. Knitting could be useful, it would be something that used his hands—and who knew, it may help improve the mobility of his left hand—and it wouldn’t be a waste of money because he’d be able to wear what he knitted instead of spending money to make useless knick-knack (like pots and vases) that would only clutter the flat.  
  
With that in mind John exits the store with a set of beginning knitting needles, a massive amount (the girl who helped him, a professed knitter herself, said that in the beginning it was best to have too much than not enough) of soft purple wool thread—and no, he told himself, he didn’t buy that specific shade of purple because it was the exact color of Sherlock’s favorite silk shirt; the one that brought out his eyes and made his pale skin look magnificently otherworldy—and a book on knitting for newbies.  
  
Later that night saw him sitting in his chair—book open on his lap—while his hands steadily moved through the calming, rhythmic movements that the book showed, a long—but not wide—chain of wool spinning from his needles. This was better than he’d thought it would be, John supposed to himself—feeling oddly content—and it was definitely helping to keep the outside world (mainly Sherlock’s death, and the actions leading up to it) out of his head.


	2. Chapter 2

John hummed as he looked at the dark blue jumper. It was, well…..lumpy. But, he supposed, it wasn’t bad for a first try; at least you could tell it was a jumper. Setting the jumper in his lap he cast a look over to the mess of knitted clothing that had piled up on the left cushion on the couch. Several colors—reds, blues, greens, yellows (but no purple, no. Never, never, purple)—of scarves and socks peeked out at him and he huffed. He didn’t want any more scarves—no matter how useful they were in a British winter—nor did he want any more wool socks. He wanted a jumper. One that was a deep, royal purple. One that would match…..the soldier sighed and pursed his lips; no, he really couldn’t be thinking things like that. Sherlock was…..gone, and wasn’t coming back so John needed to stop pretending that he would.

With a shake of his head the doctor reached for his needles and a new bundle of wool—green this time—determined to get this jumper right.

* * *

 

John gave his patient one last wave and a grin but sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh when the door closed behind her. He was just so exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep in years, but the nightmares had been particularly bad last night. A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts and he looked up from the spot of carpet he’d been staring at to see Sarah poking her head in, a concerned frown on her face.

“John,” she started and the soldier knew immediately what she was going to say. He opened his mouth in an attempt to cut her off; he was fine, dammit.

“No, you’re not fine. You need to go home.” She said, raising her voice over his attempts to speak.

The male doctor sagged in on himself “How can I go home Sarah?” he asked softly, turning sad eyes up to look at her “How can I go home today of all days, knowing he’s not there. Knowing he won’t be there ever again. How can I go home and sit there by myself today, on the anniversary of—”his breath hitched and he shuddered, turning away.

“Oh, John.” The sadness in her voice caused his own eyes to sting.

“I don’t know if I can stay at 221B tonight by myself. I don’t know what I’ll do,” and if that wasn’t a confession of his mental state, Sarah didn’t know what was. She rested one hand on his crumpled shoulder and used the other to fish the keys to her flat out of her coat pocket.

“Okay,” she said softly, giving his shoulder a slight squeeze “okay, go to my flat instead and take a bath, a long one. I’ll finish up here and go grab you an overnight bag and then we’ll have a Cry-In.”

A Cry-In was their take on a lie-in. The night before they’d drink tons of cheap wine and talk about what was upsetting them—for Sarah, so far, it was a cheating boyfriend and the snake in the grass friend who he was sleeping with, the death of a beloved pet, and her grandmother’s failing health, and for John it was first and foremost Sherlock’s death and the helplessness and guilt the soldier felt, the letters he got sometimes from Afghanistan from his once-upon-a-time comrades and friends updating him on deaths and other happenings, and the rows he had with Harry (who was trying to clean and sober up, but blamed John when she  fell from the wagon)—until they fell asleep on Sarah’s couch. When they woke up they’d have a short breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast before pulling out the tubs of ice cream and diving head first into those as they watched whatever documentaries (barring those about war) could be found on the Discovery Channel to take their minds off their problems.

John’s lips twitched into a sad almost smile and nodded. That sounded like a decent idea. “I’ve got to stop by somewhere before I go to your flat, so don’t rush here. Don’t forget my needles?” he asked quietly. Sarah was the only one who knew about his hobby.

Pushing aside the first half of what John had said—Sarah knew exactly where he was going, and couldn’t begrudge him the trip at all, even if she didn’t approve—she rolled her eyes “Yes, yes, I won’t forget your dirty little secret.”

He actually did smile at that and Sarah scoffed playfully. She was the only person that John had told about his knitting hobby—or addiction, she should say, as she knew that every penny he had that didn’t go to rent or a minimal amount of food went to yarn, patterns, needles, and knitting accessories. He had replaced his addiction to the thrill of chasing criminals with Sherlock with a knitting obsession –for reasons he explained as “I’ve left enough of myself open to their scrutiny, Sarah, sometimes I feel like an open wound they’re all prodding at to make sure I’m not festering with infections, I don’t need or want them to know what I do; it’s not really any of their business anyway, and I just need something to keep to myself. I need just one secret that I can enjoy having.” Which she almost understood, she really did, but she thought it was a little silly the lengths that John went through to keep his hobby a secret.

She nudged him with the hand on his shoulder “Now, up and out you. Give me,” she checked her watch “an hour, at the least and I’ll be home.”

John nodded and stood, stretching his arms over his head, before hanging his white lab coat on the hook by his desk and picking his jumper up from where it sat folded neatly on said desk. The jumper was a warm yellow striped with black (he really was a professional at making them now, if John had to admit it; a lot of the jumpers he wore now were ones he’d knitted himself). It reminded Sarah of a bumblebee. It reminded John less of bees and more of Sherlock’s interest in them, not that he would ever tell Sarah.

Fishing a ring of keys from his own pocket, John bent over and inserted a small silver one into the lock on his desk drawer. With a gentle tug the drawer slid open and the ex-army Captain retrieved a brown paper bag that had its top folded over and taped down.

 “See you in a bit,” John said with a wave as he retreated out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short, like drabble length--and I feel like a bitch for having it so short--but its for a reason. Dramatic effect and all that. Don't worry, the next WILL be up by tonight and it WILL be long enough to make up for this.

John sucked in a breath and pushed the iron gate open. Visiting the cemetery always made him feel nauseous, no matter how many times he came. He gripped the bag in his hand tighter and stepped forward, feet carrying him down the well-known path while his mind drifted. This would be the third year he’d done this. The first year he’d left a clumsily knit grey scarf. The second, a pair of black and yellow stripped socks, and this time—the last time, he told himself firmly, this was his last goodbye to his friend—was a knit beanie; a royal purple, hand-knit beanie. 

Finally his feet came to a stop and John looked down at the words that had been chiseled into polished black marble ‘Sherlock Holmes’. 

John sucked in a deep, shaky, breath and released it with a slow blink as he rested the paper sack on the ground in front of the headstone “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” and with that, John Watson turned and walked away from his best friend for the last time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter!   
> Reivew yeah?

Sarah sighed and pushed the door open to 221B Baker Street opened with a heavy heart. Her entire being ached for her friend as she took in the dim coldness of his empty flat. Over the last three years John had packed up everything that reminded him of the great arsehole known as Sherlock Holmes and put it in storage. The only thing of the former Consulting Detective that remained was his (frankly ugly) chair, the skull on the mantle, and some of the less grotesquely subjected books. Suddenly her eyes caught something by the window and she threw a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream.

There, shadowed by the setting sun’s rays, stood Sherlock Holmes—the dead detective—dressed in a horrendous clashing outfit of his normal Belstaf coat and trademark skinny suit, a grey scarf, a royal purple knit toboggan, and—peeking out from the gap between his trousers and shoes was a fuzzy pair of bumblebee-like wool socks.

Before she could even comprehend what she was doing Sarah was flying across the room, her legs striding farther then she thought they could, and her clenched fist was flying through the air; landing a solid punch to the bottom of the “dead” man’s chin in a vicious upper-cut (something that John had taught her after she’d been attacked coming home from the shops one evening).

“You sonovabitch!” She spat angrily, watching in satisfaction as the unprepared male stumbled backwards and into the window.

“You fucking bastard!” she continued to screech advancing on him again with one fist raised, only to be caught by the wrists by strong pale hands.

“Where is John?” The man growled and Sarah drew her lips back in and ugly, angry sneer.

“At my house, where he’s going to stay tonight while he drinks himself stupid over your death,” she hissed.

The pale male snarled and shoved her away “Get out.”

Sarah snapped her teeth at him agitatedly and caught herself on the back of the ugly square chair “Don’t call him tonight,” she warned.

“And why wouldn’t I?” the Consulting Detective snapped.

“Because he doesn’t need to deal with this, he doesn’t need to deal with you, tonight,” and with that she turned and made her way to John’s room to pack a bag, all the while trying to come up with how she would tell John that the man he thought was dead—the man Sarah was convinced the soldier loved more than life itself, even if John had never said anything—was alive and in his flat, wearing a hodgepodge of undignified wool creations.

She paused and buried her face in a hand. Of course. Of course the bastard would be wearing those knitted—those hand knitted—objects, no matter how pedestrian/common/undignified they were. They were presents from John. One new knitted project for every new year since John had taken up knitting, so that by the time the anniversary of Sherlock Holmes’s death John could leave a perfect present with the detective in the graveyard when he left.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Sarah reached under John’s bed for the pre-packed duffle bag that the blonde male kept under there for such occasions—it didn’t matter that they’d dated, John had never felt comfortable with her touching his pants unless she’d been removing them in the heat of passion—and then dug through his closet to retrieve another bag that contained his knitting supplies several things of yarn. Without another look at the Detective, who was still standing at the window with a contemplative look on his face, Sarah strode out of 221B and into the evening air; throwing up one hand to catch a taxi.

* * *

 

Setting John’s things at the table with one hand, Sarah used the other to dig through the brown sacks that where already sitting there. Ice cream toppings and several bottles of Sarah’s favorite wine—it was kind of expensive but it made her feel….fancy—where revealed and she heaved a sigh. John’s gestures of goodness where just going to make this harder.

She pulled two glasses down from one set of kitchen cabinets and an unopened bottle of whiskey from the other. Looking at the glasses for a moment she shook her head and set them on the counter, reaching instead to grab one of the bottles of wine from the brown shopping bag with her empty hand.

John raised an eyebrow at her when she handed him the bottle of whiskey but stayed quiet when Sarah shook her head “Wine’s not going to be enough, trust me.”

“Glasses?” he inquired instead.

“Nope.” His eyebrow climbed higher and Sarah sat heavily on the couch and turned to look at him.

“John,” she started seriously and he straightened at her tone “you know I would never lie to you, right? Especially not about what I’m about to tell you.” He looked at her cautiously but nodded slowly.

“Someone was in your flat when I got there.” She watched solemnly as he jumped in his seat in alarm but tightened her hold to keep him in his seat.

“It was Sherlock, John,” she breathed “I swear, I swear to you.”

“Impossible!” He spit in shock and Sarah shook her head frantically, showing him her knuckles when he stuttered out something about her not being close enough to see.

“I punched him, John; I could see him perfectly fine.” She shot him a look “I also saw he was wearing a hand knit beanie, along with a scarf and a pair of socks that matches a particular bumblebee patterned jumper that I’ve seen someone” here she gives him a rather pointed look “wear, quite frequently.”

The ex-army Captain sagged back against the couch, whiskey bottle held loosely in his hand “Oh God,” he croaked as he tightened his hand around the alcohol “You were right,” and with that he brought up the other hand to twist the cap off.

Sarah uncorked her wine as well and took a swallow as she watched John steadily guzzle three or four mouthfuls of whiskey.

* * *

 

“So what are you going to do?” she murmured, only slurring slightly, later that night, lounging on both John and the couch, as they watched a late night documentary on odd addictions—the girl who ate laundry detergent had caused John to almost fall off the couch because he’d laughed so hard.

“Sober up and go home tomorrow, then I’m going to yell and throw things at his face, and then when I’ve calmed down I’m going to listen to him and forgive the stupid bastard,” he shrugged when Sarah shot him a questioning look “What else can I do Sarah? I’ve been praying for this since he jumped off that damned roof, how can I not take the second chance with him I’ve been given?”

Sarah smiled softly and gave him a light kiss on the cheek “You are a good man, John Watson, too good of a man for Sherlock Holmes, or anyone else I’ve ever met.”

John chuckled, his chest rumbling under her head “I don’t feel like a good man.”

“And that’s what makes you a great man.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is basically stitch and pattern that I based Sherlock's jumper off of (kind of like the brown sweater the woman is wearing, but with a tighter neck--an actual turtle neck--and full sleeves.)  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhBXsDinlGA
> 
> PS. If anyone could draw Sherlock in his socks or his jumper or anything, I will seriously give you my frist child, and possibly my second as well. Or I'll name them after you or somethig.

John hitched his duffle bag higher on his right shoulder and shuffled around in front of the door to 221B; he was stalling—the coward’s tactic—and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. What could he possibly say to the man he’d though had died years ago? ‘ _The man you had never really let go of_ ,’ his conscience whispered. He steeled himself, calling up all the rage and sadness he’d held back over the past few years; letting it bubble up inside.

John swallowed and pushed the door open. When the wood swung out of his way he froze and his duffle bag slipped from lax fingers. There—curled in his chair—sat Sherlock Holmes, dressed in all three wool clothing that John had left at his gravesite over the past three years. Upon a closer look John realized the Consulting Detective was asleep. Pale eyes snapped open at the sound of the duffle bag hitting the ground and John, realizing the other man was now awake, launched himself across the room—the fight that he’d been trying to stir inside himself draining out at the sight of the always pristine detective in mismatching clothes, the clothes that John himself had made for the other.

Wrapping his arms tightly around the Detective—who had straightened up and flinched backwards, as if to avoid a hit, when he saw John move—and buried his head in Sherlock’s chest.

“You stupid bastard,” John whispered, clenching his hands in the back fabric of the other’s coat.

John held back a hysterical chuckle as the arms that wrapped around him where stiff as steel. He held the taller man to him anyway and slowly the arms around his waist relaxed as the younger man practically melted into the soldier.

“I’m so tired John,” Sherlock murmured into his hair and John felt his heart break a little for the detective.

“I know,” he hummed, stroking up a comforting hand up and down Sherlock’s back slowly.

“I missed you, I’m sorry, I did it for you, he said—” Sherlock began almost frantically; his own hand’s tightening in John’s leather jacket.

“Hush,” John shushed him soothingly “It’s alright, it’s okay now.”

“I missed you.” The detective whispered again and John chuckled, reaching up a hand to pet the scarf around Sherlock’s neck.

“I can tell.”

“Where’d you get it?” Sherlock inquired, reaching up his own hand to pet the soft wool “It’s not store grade stitching, or even professional, but it’s comfortable and softer than what you can buy in stores. Likewise, the socks and hat show that whoever made them has improved since the scarf, which means that whoever made has had time to practice.”

John held back a grin, the great Consulting Detective must have gotten rusty in his time away, if he couldn’t figure out by the callouses on John’s hands—or something equally ridiculous but true—that he was the one that had knit the pieces. He shrugged casually instead.

“Just a little shop in London I found.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered.

“For what?” John asked just as softly.

“For believing in me, for not forgetting me.”

John laughed, loud and boarding on hysterically “How could I ever forget you, the great Sherlock Holmes, my best friend—Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock let out a chocked sound and buried his face into John’s hair to muffle the sound.

John squeezed the other tighter and held him until his quiet tears subsided.

* * *

 

John opened the door poked his head out of his bedroom, listening carefully. Nothing. He grinned and slipped out of his room, tip-toeing down the hallway—it was kind of fun, sneaking around Sherlock to keep his secret—measuring tape in hand. As quickly as he could, John slipped into Sherlock’s room and carefully avoided touching anything; it wouldn’t do for the detective to know that he’d been in his room.

John grinned when he spotted what he had hoped to find; a shirt draped over Sherlock’s desk chair. Excellent. He slowly unwound his tape measure, holding it tight as he carefully measured the sleeve of the button down that hung casually from the chair. Just as he finished rewinding his tape measure, the  tell-tale creak of the third stair alerted the doctor that someone was coming up to the flat.

Taking the same direct path as before, John swiftly made his way out of the bedroom, being sure to shut the door quietly behind him, and sprinted back to his room; carelessly throwing the tape measure under his desk he flopped down on his bed and quickly picked up the book he’d left sitting on the nightstand and flipped it to a random page.

“John!” Sherlock’s excited voice echoed down the hall and John sighed in relief as he shut the book; that had been close.

“John!” Sherlock hollered again when the doctor didn’t immediately answer.

“Yes?” John called back in fond exasperation, that man had the patience of a child.

“John, come quick! Lestrade has a robbery and a double homicide!”

The blonde furrowed his brows; Sherlock never took such “mundane” cases “So?” he called instead of thinking about it too deeply.

“The corpse’s eyes are what have been stolen!”

Ah, that explained it. With a chuckle he pushed himself from the bed and hurried down the stairs before the detective decided to just leave him—which had honestly almost stopped happening since Sherlock’s return from the “dead.”

“Let’s go then!” He called as he trotted past the taller man, who was knotting his grey scarf around his neck—yet another thing he had started to do since his return, wearing the scarf that John had knitted him instead of the dark blue scarf from before—carefully, as if it were a particularly fragile child (or a special piece of equipment he had lifted from the lab at Bart’s).

* * *

 

John slumped down tiredly in his office chair the next day and sighed. Technically it was his day off but he knew that there was no way of keeping his surprise a secret for long if it was in the flat, so instead John had told Sherlock that Sarah had requested that he pick up a few extra shifts—lie—since they were so understaffed at the moment—truth—and he’d agreed because he could always use the money.

Sighing he straightened up and opened his desk drawer only to groan in frustration. His needles where fine, his yarn, however, had managed to wrap itself in a tangle from hell. What a good omen for how this project was going to turn out. He shook his head and set his jaw in determination. No, this project was going to go just fine and the result would turn out perfect.

With that thought he pulled the great heap of yarn out and with patient hands began to untangle it.

Around his lunch stomach grumbled angrily and John pursed his lips. He had finally gotten his yarn straightened out but now his body was demanding that he take care of it. After a moment’s thought he set the yarn down and stood, stretching his back as he did, maybe this was a good thing; a break would help him keep his frustration down.

After lunch John sat back down at his desk and picked up on end of his yarn to tie a slip knot, he could already feel himself relaxing as he worked his way through the beginning motions. With one hand he worked the knot on his needle while he used the other to flip through his knitting book, carefully looking over each stitch pattern and full jumper example. He needed just the right stitch for this jumper.

Halfway through the book he stopped and smiled. ‘Raglan’ was all the title said, but it was the picture that caught John’s interest. The patter was simple, but elegant looking and the book’s notes stated that the simple pattern shown could be easily adapted to fit the knitter’s own tastes and flares.

With a happy sigh he set to work, hands flowing in a practiced motion of looping and pulling and looping and pulling and dips and lifts and simple movements of contentment.

* * *

 

_Honestly,_ John thought to himself as he vaulted over a knocked over trash can, _I’m going to be too old for this very soon._

The case had taken longer than Sherlock had originally thought it would be—turns out the two homicide victims had been a pair of Russian teens who’d been plucked off the streets somewhere in Paris during a vacation and forced into sexual slavery that had managed to get away only to be killed for their beautiful eyes, which had been sold on the black-market as “donor organs”—but Sherlock had finally managed to untangle both the slavery ring and the black-market organ seller. They were now chasing down the girls’ actual killer.

The case, and John hated to admit this, had actually been instrumental in keeping Sherlock from discovering what the doctor had been up to the last few weeks.  Thankfully John had finished the jumper the weekend before and now sat wrapped in the bottom of John’s sock drawer, ready to be presented to Sherlock.

The ex- army Captain as drawn from his thoughts at the sound of Sherlock tackling the suspect to the ground and with an exasperated sigh he pulled out his phone and dialed Greg to let him know Sherlock had—quite literally—caught the murderer.

* * *

 

Sherlock collapsed bonelessly into his chair, a box of opened Chinese in his hand, and John took the opportunity of the detective’s inattentiveness to hurry to his room to retrieve the present.

John swallowed nervously and shuffled down the stairs and across the floor, wrapped gift clutched tightly in his hands. He cleared his throat lightly when Sherlock didn’t look up from the container of Chinese, then again—louder—when he was ignored once more.

Sherlock looked up with a slow blink then furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of his blogger holding out a wrapped shapeless mass to him.

Wordlessly he took the package gently from his doctor’s hands and turned it over a few times, weighing it. He looked back up at John questioningly.

“Well, open it.” John said with a grin. He knew the extra weight of what else he’d wrapped up along with the jumper would throw the other man off.

Slowly the darker haired man sat the present in his lap and began to unwrap the newspaper wrapping. He gasped softly and ran a gentle hand over the royal purple fabric that met his eyes.

Trembling hands reverently lifted the swath of soft wool from the paper and unfolded it. The jumper was a low turtle neck and looked like it would fit snugly enough to fit the close cut style of clothes he preferred to wear, but was loose enough to flex and twist when he moved with ease.

Sherlock’s attention was torn from the jumper when something fell into his lap. There on his legs laid to innocent looking metal sticks, and upon closer inspection they revealed themselves to be a pair of well used—he could tell exactly where the user constantly positioned their fingers at by the wear and dullness in color compared to the rest of the needle—knitting needles. And suddenly all the pieces that had been floating around inconspicuously in his mind clicked together and Sherlock let out a breathy sound of surprise that wasn’t quite a gasp nor and inhale of air.

“John?” the Holmes man asked softly, one hand gripping the knitting needles tightly while the other tenderly stroked the jumper.

“Yeah,” John replied. Not a question, but an answer.

“You knitted it?”

At this John grinned, he’d never surprised Sherlock to the point of repeating himself. He would try to do it more often, because this shocked almost speechlessness was oddly adorable—although he would never tell the other that, it wouldn’t do to scare Sherlock off with his love (and that was okay, really, because John suspected a part of him had always loved the genius and he was well used to ignoring his feelings on the matter).

John was surprised, however, when Sherlock sat aside the jumper and needles and reached for his hands. Steadily the detective pulled him close and John went easily, standing between the other’s parted knees.

Keeping eye contact with the soldier, Sherlock deliberately brought both of John’s rough, tanned hands to his own pale face and gently pressed feather light kisses to his knuckles.

John smiled and, just as deliberately, just as unflinchingly, leaned down and brushed his lips against the detective’s; once, twice, and the third time they stayed and parted, catching the soft pale-pink lips under his own in a slow, firm kiss.

The long fingers that held his own tightened and the pastel cupid’s bow parted submissively to the doctor’s gentle advances.

* * *

 

John strode onto the crime scene behind Sherlock confidently, trying desperately not to laugh at all the confused, wide eyed looks that were being shot to the oblivious, crime-focused Consulting Detective.

He failed when Lestrade—who had been facing the body as he talked—turned to ask Sherlock for his opinion and stopped, jaw falling slightly as he stared blankly at the detective’s torso.

“What,” the Detective Inspector began slowly “are you wearing?”

Sherlock gave him a dead-eyed, yet similarly blank stare in return and said patronizingly slow, as if he were talking to a toddler “A jumper, I would have thought that even you, in all your infinite stupidity, would be able to realize that on your own. I see why you need me even on such a simple case as this.”

Lestrade shot him an annoyed looked “Okay,” he tried again “Why are _you_ wearing a _jumper_?”

The Holmes rolled his eyes in response “Because its winter in London and I’m cold.”

“What happened to your normal obscenely tight posh button down?”

Sherlock huffed at the “posh button down” comment then sighed exasperatedly “Oh for the love of—” he cut himself and pinched his nose in frustration “It was a gift, it’s unbelievably soft, and I like it, has that satisfied your small brained curiosity enough to turn our attention back to the crime, which is—by the way—the only reason I’m here? I don’t have for your ideal plebian chit-chat?”

He whirled away before the DI could say anything else and Lestrade groaned and made to follow before something else caught his eyes; a flash of yellow and black from the gap between Sherlock’s slacks and shoes.

“What the hell are those socks?” he called as he trotted after the striding consultant “I’ve never seen those in your sock index, are you hiding something Holmes?”

John sighed fondly and started after the other two slowly. Of course Lestrade had never seen them in the sock index. The only time Sherlock took the blasted things off was when John forced them off of him to put them in the laundry and even then the Consulting Two Year Old will lay around and pout barefooted, wiggling his toes in irritation until John would pull the socks out of the dryer and toss them in the sulking detective’s face after which they would immediately be slid back onto gracefully long feet.

He chuckled to himself as he heard Sherlock snap something biting out at Lestrade about minding his own business and something about the DI’s long cheating wife.

It seemed that these days his life was wrapped up in comforting chains; Sherlock’s too, if the way the genius would watch the soldier’s hands—memorized—when John pulled out his knitting needles. This hobby thing really was the best idea—the only good idea, according to Sherlock—his therapist had ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously guys, I would love a pic of Sherlock in his bumblebee socks.  
> Also, review and let me know what you think! I'm always trying to improve.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are soul food, so feed the Consulting Writer so she can continue to function to write.
> 
> Works Inspired by this: http://rorizee.tumblr.com/image/42335027409  
>  http://belelaith.deviantart.com/#/d5t745o


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